Haulberk
by shadowcaster01
Summary: Disaster has struck on a small town at the edge of the Hadarac Desert. It falls upon a small band of unlikely heroes to return hope to the people they represent. This takes a look at the perspective of the Dwarves.
1. Burning Darkness

Although I love the series, I don't own the world map I've placed my OCs in.

Okay, Here goes... Chapter 1, burning darkness:

Long, long ago; before the elves arrived in Alagaesia...

It was a dark and cloudless night. The moon shone brightly amongst a sky speckled with stars. An old, dwarven village sat encamped on the banks of the Hadarac desert, lulled still and quiet during the late hours of the night. The group of buildings were slightly age worn, a cluster of wattle and daub houses marked out by narrow dirt paths and sparse grassy yards.

A handful of guards were patrolling the area, keeping a cautious watch on their surroundings. A fluttering sound suspiciously akin to rustling leather caught their attention, at which they stiffened in surprise. Soon after, when nothing came of it, the guards shrugged off the uneventful circumstance and returned to their posts. As the group were busy chiding each other for the incident, a louder sound reached their ears...

A thunderous roar echoed through the plain and sent the sqaud into panic. This, along with the appearance of a sudden, bright light induced them into further hysterics. It was a few excruciating moments before one of them finally regained their senses to find assistance. As the first scout made his dash however, he was driven to the ground, engulfed in flames, rolling about in agony. He vainly tried to smother the fire by rolling it out, until his companions careened into him with large, wooden buckets filled with water, and dowsed the flames.

"FIRE!" came the shouts and screams from a myriad of throats. The fallen scout gazed upwards at his fellow guard and muttered hoarsely.  
"Tell them, tell them now!" he lifted a soot covered hand and rested on his friend's shoulder, who it was, it was hard to discern in the gloom. His eyes flashed alarmingly.  
"Go," he cried. "Now-" The guard spluttered mid-sentence as he was caught in a terrible coughing fit from the smoke and soot caught in his throat. The younger scout, whose arm was grabbed by the fallen companion, stared at his friend dumbly for a brief second. His eyes widened when he realised the implications of what was just said, and then bolted without a word.

The young dwarf dodged and weaved through the chaos that was once a quiet village. Squinting past the hazy smoke that hung heavy in the air, he could make out the smouldering remains of homes, broken bodies, and debris from other houses which looked like they had been torn apart. He grimaced, the taste of ash in his mouth didn't console him with the sobering sight of his ravaged town. On the ground, large trails on the uneven soil revealed more than ordinary dwellers, it showed claws.

A flying piece of driftwood missed the scout by inches. Terrified, he scurried past the confusion, glancing around to avoid more flying items when he collided with something hard. Stunned, he fell flat on his back with a thud, and stared at the column before his feet.

It was a large dark surface, interlinked, which shone like polished copper, flickerings reflected the smouldering flames around him. He coughed as a gush of ash filled air flew past him, ignoring the screams and shouts, and the crackle and hiss of flames. He sat abruptly when he focused on the base, which then rocked him to his foundations. On the dead and burnt grass before him, the column ended in claws. They were long, dark, and most importantly, super sharp. They were as thick as his wrist individually. Fear overtook the scout again as he stood up searching for a way to escape, but it was too late.

Lifting his head, the young scout met a dark iris staring back at him. It blinked once, patient and calm. The scout froze.  
Out of nowhere he was brutally shoved aside as the main defence force of the town came sprinting across the dirt path, hollering for everyone to make room for them to come through. Bruised and dusty, the scout felt a shiver run down his spine as he remembered the eye he had caught glaring into him.

More thunderous roars filled the town, only accentuating the cacophany of terror striken screams emitted by the helpless townsfolk. Crashes and explosions were audible over this din, coming from the central point of action. Before too long, the scout was on his feet once again, darting around corners and jumping over debris with an athleticism only an experienced olympian could possibly match - although in this instance his matchlessness was fuelled primarily by fear.

A growl resounded behind him. He spun around and was confronted with a gaping maw filled with monstrously huge fangs. The breeze that met with him was hot and stale, which made him gag, queasy, but too frightened to move. The eyes behind the muzzle flashed angrily with hatred a split second before a globe of light came into vision between its teeth. The dwarf jumped as this dawned on him, fleeing the threat as a plume of amber came surging behind him. He ducked at the last moment before running again, his leather hide armour smoking as he darted to safety.

The central building of town loomed into view. Almost completely untouched by the onslaught, along with several others in the vicinity, it was by far the largest structure in the village. The meetings for the village officials were held here, in the massive stone and timber building on a slight rise of land. The scout darted towards it and urgently punched at the door repetitively, bellowing his arrival and purpose before charging inside.

Three older villagers paused and turned to face the newcomer. The first official, a grey haired knurlan, glared at him.  
"Scout!" he barked. "Report!"

"Yessir!" Came the stammered reply as the junior stiffened to attention.

"Scout Heimdall reporting, sir!" Heimdall glanced nervously at his superiors' bored expressions before continuing.

"The town is in chaos sir." He began, "There were fires started and houses damaged-"

"Yes, we know that!" Cried the grey haired dwarf impatiently. "What happened? Report!" He bellowed, suddenly two steps away from the terrified scout, who flinched at the last word. He mustered his courage for a moment and then launched into a nervous explanation.

"You see, sirs," Heimdall mumbled anxiously. "There was a dragon-"

"What?!" The officials cried in unison.

"You didn't think that this part should be mentioned first?!" The grey haired superior exclaimed incredulously.

"Are you daft? These monsters will tear us apart if we don't do something fast!"  
The superior clenched his fists tightly as he began to furiously pace the room, then paused and glanced at Heimdall.

"What are you still standing in here for?" he cried. "Go out there and help everyone get rid of them!"

The scout blanched at his instructions. He pivoted on his heel in about-face, after nodding respectfully to those in the room, and fled out the door, slamming it behind him.  
The three officials stared after him in silence. The first official frowned, his expression darkening.

"Barzul!" He swore.

Heimdall's mind raced frantically as he made his way back to the scene of carnage. As he neared, the shouts grew louder and the smell of smoke assailed his senses. Heimdall coughed, eyes watering. He struggled to maintain a fast, even pace as he was challenged by panicked townsfolk, falling debris and the sweltering heat from the fires yet to be put out. Heimdall skidded to a stop, almost losing his balance, as he was confronted by a wall of people gathered at the eastern courtyard of town. Its only distinguishing feature, a statue of the town's founders, was a crumbled heap of rubble, almost unnoticable amongst the ash and soot, burnt timber and stone foundations. The well, several hundred metres away, was in the same condition, almost hard to spot in the gloom.

Heimdall pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring curses thrown at him as he went by. At the fore, there was a huge dragon on the ground, breathing heavily, smoke billowing forth through its nostrils. The dragon's lip curled back, revealing its teeth in what appeared to be a grimace. At its foreleg, a dark puddle stained the soil in what could only have been blood. Heimdall gasped in astonishment. He had never before witnessed a fallen dragon. As he was growing up, Heimdall was led to believe, like most other dwarves, that dragons were terrifyingly powerful creatures, practically impossible to take down. Yet here he was, staring at one of these monstrous legends, hurt and defeated. Even though it was right there in front of him, Heimdall could scarcely give credit to what he was seeing. _Was this real?_

Heimdall's musings were interrupted as a group of the town's defenders marched into view. One stood apart from the rest, head high, and held their stance with a measure of authority. The voice carried, clear and confident, through the crowds and soldiers, to the houses and buildings beyond.

"Get in position!" A male voice barked.

There was a shuffling of feet as the mass of bodies ahead shifted into their respectable places. They stood in neat rows, ten in each, three deep. Heimdall could make out some of them, their hands hovering over their belts, waiting for the right moment.

"Archers at the ready!" Bellowed the voice once again.

More movement rippled through the back row of the soldiers' ranks. They all, in unison, pulled out their stout bows and reached back to their leather hide quivers, hands hovering.

The dragon came into view further ahead. Heimdall could just barely see it. He doubted that those who were standing behind him could spot it at all. The dragon growled, furious and yet, cautious of its opponents. It edged closer, blinking twice before pausing again. The dragon tensed, anticipating a strike, or in Heimdall's view, preparing to strike those in front of it.

A loud shout echoed over their heads. Heimdall couldn't discern what it had said, or even what it meant for that matter. His curiosity was satisfied as he saw the two front rows of soldiers charge ahead, screaming their own battle cries. Metal rang in his ears and shone brightly as he witnessed them draw their swords of bronze. Half of the group swung their battle axes above their heads instead, and they closed the distance between themselves and their foe.

Before the group reached their target, another loud cry reverbrated through the streets. The row of archers left behind, in one swift movement, drew their bows and loosed a rain of arrows at the dragon. It hung in an arc before hitting the creature, which deflected most. Some of the arrows had become caught in between the dragon's heavy scales, and it howled in annoyance and pain.

The infantry caught up with the arrows. They spread about widely, darting to form a circle around their enemy. The soldiers scowled in absolute hatred, making their final charge to close the gap. Five were swept away briskly by the dragon's tail, knocking them back several metres into a large pile of scattered ash, timber and rubble. Only two survived the fall, their injuries preventing them from rejoining the fight with their comrades.

The fight carried on well into the early hours of morning. The last dragon had taken down half the force which had initially attacked it. Only a handful of these dwarves had survived. The others were still standing, although not without injury, some more so than others.

Heimdall, by this point, had incited the crowd to disperse. He had managed to have them organise their own system of putting out the remaining fires from the attack, as well as a search for any missing people. Most were then told to flee to the west side of town which, miraculously, had been left almost untouched.

In the midst of a pause between attacks, the dragon that remained suddenly unfurled its wings and shot up into the sky. The stunned soldiers stood there, mouths agape, as the archers loosed their last arrows in its wake. When it was no longer within range, they too lowered their bows and stood still, pondering.


	2. Among the ashes

Chapter 2... Among the ashes

The sun began its ascent in shining glory, although this particular spectacle was comprimised by the aftermath the night's battle left in its wake.  
Smoke trailed from the destroyed houses and hung heavy in the air. Ash and rubble lay scattered across the scorched dirt, and the grass was all but non existent, blackened patches dotting through the dirt and dust along the ground. A light breeze wafted through the wreckage, sweeping away bits and pieces remaining among the debris. Ash and dirt floated past, hovering by the remains of people and landmarks that were so brightly cherished before.

Amongst the devastation, in the centre of the eastern courtyard, lying with all the broken foundations, timber and stone, was something the town had never witnessed before. A dragon lay there, deeply wounded during the skirmish, which had not survived the final moments of the night. It was still bleeding, the lifeforce draining into the soil, shining a dark cherry in the morning light. The dragon's scales glittered, dazzling the onlookers' eyes, a shimmering silver. It was eerie to the townsfolk, they had never heard of a silver dragon before. Although they had heard of them coming in every colour hue, none had been told of silver ones before. The most that the town had seen were night attacks and skirmishes, where at the end no dragon would remain long enough to be spotted in broad daylight.

The people gazed in awe. It was a magnificent beast, however monstrous, although there was a hint of pride on their faces. They had defeated a dragon, one of the most terrifying beings in the land. Heimdall approached the creature, curious and slightly frightened, taking slow, yet cautious steps toward it. As he neared the dragon, a hand rested on his shoulder in warning.

Heimdall jumped.  
"Don't go near that beast," a gruff voice murmured.

Heimdall turned to the speaker. It was another scout, like himself, covered in ash and soot from the attacks that night. He was an older peer in his group, with short, dark hair and darker eyes, and grey bearded, trimmed short for practicality. He was peering at Heimdall quizically, since he had been silent for several minutes. Heimdall blinked in surprise, remembering that he'd just been spoken to.

"Sorry about that, Oden, old friend," he replied at last. "That creature's the first one I've ever seen dead before."

Oden's face relaxed. Then he grinned and slapped his friend heartily on the back.

"'Tis great that it's dead, isn't it?" Oden cried cheerfully. "And what's this I hear about you going to see the elders?" he asked, smirking at Heimdall, who appeared surprised.

"Did he react as I told you he did when I was sent to him last?"  
Heimdall nodded numbly.

"Well I warned ye, didn't I?" Oden said, laughing. "He never changes does he?"  
He paused for a moment before continuing.

"Oh well, 'tis all in the past now. Didn't take the dragons too kindly, I bet. Reprimanded ye too, I reckon. Typical!" Oden glanced at Heimdall's worried expression.

"Let's go to see the others, shall we?" Oden cried. "When this is all over, we may as well settle it over a drink." Oden led Heimdall away from the dead dragon, still laying there amongst the mess.

They wandered past the broken down marketplace and the individual houses destroyed during the night. The townsfolk could be seen bustling about with the repairs already, disappointed looks on their faces as they expertly swept away the ash and debris, or sorted out the usable stone and timber among the wreckage. All those who lent a hand appeared to have the air of experiencing this before, as if it were routine, part of their everyday life up until now. And it was.

Heimdall followed Oden through the meandering crowd, stepping around piles of debris yet to be collected and sorted. Although it wasn't a very large town, the folk who lived there had implemented a fairly effective system for dealing with the wreckage. It would certainly take them weeks to find and gather all the materials needed to repair the town, but the actual rebuilding would take months to complete. Cleaning up the debris usually took several days, sometimes more, depending on the weather conditions and extent of damage.

Heimdall ducked under a large piece of timber being carried through. The ones carrying it paused and nodded to him before setting off though the crowds once again. Those from the west side of town, who hadn't been affected as much, were also amongst the damage, giving assistance to wherever it was needed. It was easy to spot them, as their clothes weren't as dirty or damaged as those from the east side. Heimdall saw two of them hurrying past him over to where the timber was being sorted. He noticed then that Oden had stopped up ahead, and ran to catch up with him.

"What took you so long, Heimdall?" He asked. "I was waiting for you to catch up when I noticed that you weren't with me anymore."

Oden glanced behind him, then at Heimdall, who was breathing heavily after his sprint.

"Well, it's good you caught up now, but this is where we need to go anyway. They're just up there."

Oden pointed to where the other scouts were gathered outside the meeting hall in the centre of town. He gestured for Heimdall to follow, and briskly made his way to the others, who were standing there waiting for their arrival.

"Ah, Heimdall and Oden! Good to see you," a fair haired dwarf cried. "We thought you lost in the skirmish!"

"No Gannel, those monsters wouldn't get Heimdall here," a blonde scout piped, putting an arm around Heimdall. "He's too fast, especially when he's scared of something!" The scout finished, to the amusement of the group.

"Aye Nado, there's not a knurla alive who could beat this young dwarf here, not in a thousand years," Oden agreed wholeheartedly, full of mirth.

Heimdall, in the centre of the group, looked half mortified, and half embarrassed. He bagan to edge away quietly from the discussion before Nado spotted him and dragged the escaping dwarf back into the conversation.

After a few minutes of bantering and laughing, Oden sobered.  
"What do you think of this attack?" He asked. "We've never had three dragons at us before."

Nado scowled.  
"Nay, I don't like it. I don't like it at all," he murmured. "Too many of those beasts in a small town such as ours. Not good tidings at all."

"You think there could be something afoot in the other towns as well?" Gannel offered nevously, glancing between his comrades, who were looking more and more concerned by the minute.

"Nay, I hope not," Heimdall replied harshly. "If there is, then our Grimstborith would most likely have heard about it."

He looked around at the others before adding:

"Besides, if it gets any worse than this, how in the world will we be able to cope? We're the furthest town, it'd take too long for help to reach us."

The group paled at the thought in unison.

"Do not bring up such things," Oden murmured quickly, glancing back at the hall behind them. "It is bad luck to speak of those matters."

Oden spat on the ground before him.  
"Despicable monsters! They have no right to attack us so blindly. They shall see what it means when we dwarves are finished with them."

His companions nodded in agreement with his words, before they too spat on the ground in front of them. They all turned to face the meeting hall, where three official - looking dwarves were stepping outside.

The door opened to a gust of hot air, blowing dust into the astonished faces of the town's leading officials. The three dwarves shielded their eyes with their hands after the first initial shock, squinting at the scene before them. It was heavily overcast, and the group of knurla ahead seemed slightly out of place with the townsfolk working diligently at reordering the chaos that had occurred during the attack the night before.

The first dwarf, a greying general, had specifically called in his scouting squadron to attend a follow up meeting on what was to come. He was still dressed in his military garb. A leather helm crowned his head, with a short nosepiece obscuring his face. At his hip swung a bronze battle axe with a short string of runes etched down the side. He brushed the dirt off of his shoulders and motioned to the two others beside him.

"Grimstborith," he murmured. "Do you think we will be able to fund both the repair for damages this time around _and_ this other task?"

The grimstborith nodded gravely. "Aye, that I do," he replied. "From the looks of things at the moment and the reports that we've received over the past few hours, a lot of the material that has been found intact is reusable."

The general looked back at the scene before him solemnly. "This is luck indeed. It is rare to have so may dragons attack us at once, but I find it strangethat only half of our village was destroyed. Why not all?"

The grimstborith moved towards the group of dwarves ahead, his hand hovering over his belt, where he had his own battle axe tucked in on the side. The axe sported an emblem of a hammer and stars surrounding it. Instead of a helm, the grimstborith had his chain of office – a silver pendant inscribed with the clan name and emblem, matching the age old axe. It swung lightly as he stode through the wreckage.

The grimstborith turned to his general. "We know not the will of the dragons, but rest assured, whoever takes up on his task for us shall greatly increase our chances of survival in this war, if you call those dragons adversaries more than just monsters."

The general smiled darkly. "Aye," he laughed. "_If_ they are more than mere beasts, of which I doubt. They don't even speak!"

"Lay off such discussion for now, general." His leader muttered, giving him a stern look. "Apart from what we ahve already been dealt, there is no need to worsen the matter with that talk. The gods may use this against us, even if we are right."

The general nodded stiffly. "Aye, sir. Wouldn't want to anger Guntera and his associates. I appologise for my misconduct."

Upon reaching the last few feet of their destination, the grimstborith motioned again.

"Scribe!" He called, while waving him over.

The young scribe hastened to catch up with his superiors, who had gained much ground ahead of him. He wore simple garb, a plain grey tunic and leggings with the clan insignia in white on the shoulder. A satchel was slung loosely over his shoulder, made from scrap strips of tanned leather hide. A few scrolls peeked out of the side flap. The bag clinked as he walked betraying the existence of several ink bottles that were also stored there. At his belt, the scribe had a small dagger and a pouch, which contained several stamps, seal resin and quill knives.

The scribe half tripped over a piece of driftwood lying in front of him, careening into the general, who scowled at him before swatting him over the head.

"Watch where you're going, you knave!" He snarled, frown deepening. "If you run into me again, you'll regret it, boy!"

The grimstborith glanced back at his two subordinates. "General," he called quietly. "I don't think it's well to treat our young scribe here so harshly. Unless you want our village to fall to ruin without a chance to record it in the histories?"

"Sir, our village will prevail! I know it." The general replied. "We have other scribes more competant than this child, I'm certain. Whay not send for someone more qualified?"

The grimstborith lowered his voice. "Nay, you misunderstand the point entirely. We need this scribe for the exact reason of him being inexperienced in his craft. He is required for the task that lies ahead, to save our village and get help."

He stared his general squarely in the eye. "It will give the scribe a chance to better himself, to improve during the journey. Why else would we ask someone so young?" The grimstborith asked sternly.

"Our two other scribes are already well versed in this kind of situation. It would be of more use to send one of them rather than this amateur," the general muttered.

The grimstborith sighed. "General, we have already sent one out to record the investigation of which direction the dragons had come from, along with several of the village guard to accompany him and the tracker sent on the assignment. Our other scribe is currently indisposed, since he was injured during last night's attack. The young one here is the only available option for us at the moment."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "Or do you think that we should send this knurla out toward the vengeance of those monstrous dragons with his inexperience instead of our available veteran?"

"Nay, sir. Hopefully this one wil gain valuable insight from this, that is, if he survives." The general scowled. "He's a clumsy oaf to boot!"

"Do not chide him for that, he'll get over it soon. This assignment needs as many useful knurla as possibe to ensure it's success. You may think of him more favourably when it's all over."

"Aye, sir. And now there's the scouts to deal with."

"Let's proceed then, general."

The grimstborith motioned for the scribe to follow, while he and the general strode over to the group of scouts standing about a hundred metres away from the meeting hall. The grimstborith was the first to reach the scouts, with the general coming close behind.

"Scouts, attention!" The general barked harshly.

He smirked as the troops stood rigid with stoic expressions on their faces. They had seemed way too relaxed at this time of day, especially after the attack and casulaties that occurred the night before. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced around them, watching for any foot out of line. When ensured of their absolute obedience, the general continued.

"At ease, scouts," he began. "The grimstborith requires your services today. Make sure you don't fail in that, understood?"

A chorus of 'Ayes' sounded in unison, in response to the comment. Nado stepped forward.

"Sir, what is expected of us?"

The grimstborith smiled wanly. "We need you to journey to the other villages and find out if they are experiencing the same circumstances as us. If they are, we will need the king to know of the situation, if he hasn't been made aware already."

"The general has suggested to me that the group of you work well together. So, I am sending the four of you out on this mission along with a scribe and two gurads to accompany you."

"When do we leave, sir?" Heimdall asked. "Hopefully we will be able to prepare for the trip, seeing as it will be a long journey to the king."

"You are required to start tomorrow night. As for preparations, we already have the most part of it under control. You only need worry about your individual belongings, as supplies have been sorted and set aside."

The grimstborith motioned to the young dwarf standing behind him, who was pushed forward by the general. The scribe had a brief expression of panic flit across his face. The scribe appeared to be extremely young in the eyes of the scouts, as he didn't even show signs of a beard yet. The fair haired scribe quailed under the scrutiny of those gathered around him, and began to back away, before he was grabbed by the general and hauled back into the discussion.

"This dwarf here will be your scribe and messenger, to go with you on your journey. Unfortunately, the guards will be unable to meet with you until much closer to your departure, as they have other duties to take care of."

The grimstborith nodded at the scribe, who smiled uncertainly back at him. The clan leader continued.

"I will take my leave now, as there are other things that require my attention. I wish you luck on your travels, and hope that this attack was nothing more than mere coincidence."

The grimstborith turned o his heel and headed down towards the scavengers and workers. The general nodded at the group and walked off in the opposite direction, over to the barracks, where the main soldiers were awaiting orders.


End file.
